The Legend of Zorro

by Scott Ciencin

  Tornado lapped at the tequila as it flowed down the hill in bubbling rivulets toward a heavy forest.

  “Hey, cut it out, you had enough,” demanded Alejandro as he stumbled close to the stallion in a drunken wobble. Draping one arm over the horse’s neck for support, Alejandro asked, “Tell me something, amigo. Horse to man…have you ever felt the cold stab of love’s betrayal?”

  Tornado’s sturdy frame rocked as he expelled a loud wrenching belch.

  “ ‘Count’ Armand, with his fancy wine and that frou-frou accent!” said Alejandro dazedly. “How could Elena choose a man like that eh?! I’ll make her want me back so badly she’ll be weeping with desire! Nobody leaves my tequila worm dangling in the wind!”

  Losing his balance, he tumbled from the saddle. Chuffing, Tornado rode off, disappearing around a corner.

  “Oye!” cried Alejandro. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Estupido!”

  Annoyed and frustrated, Alejandro yanked a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his muddy face. A surprising gust of wind rose up suddenly, ripping the cloth from his fingers. He turned—

  And the sun came out at midnight.

  A silent, blinding flash of white light swept through the forest. Staggering back, Alejandro raised his hand to cover his eyes as the light rocketed over him, a startling explosive blast tearing at his eardrums while an invisible hand drove him from his feet. Branches snapped like bones and a shocking whoosh sounded in the night as Alejandro was tossed high into the air. His back smashed against a heavy stump, his limbs flailed as he gasped for breath and rolled a dozen yards, broiling waves of heat scorching the air above.

  A brooding, unearthly silence came next, a veil slowly lifted by the low crackle of flames and the trembling pops of thin skeletal branches that sounded like kindling in a fireplace, though they hung overhead. A choking stench filled Alejandro’s mouth and nose even as breath returned to him. Coughing, he waved his hands against the low billows of smoke and—what? Brimstone?

  Peeling himself off the ground, Alejandro stumbled toward the trees. He traced the path of the blast, tensing as he observed a perimeter of fire ringing a lifeless crater in the forest’s heart. He knew of no force on earth that could pound so deep and so great a hole into the ground, except perhaps a comet fallen from the sky.

  He suddenly felt very sober.

  A voice as strange and disturbing as a crush of angry moths hissed, “El Fuego del diablo…”

  Alejandro felt a prickling sensation steal up his spine as he swung around to face a gaunt peasant shuffling toward him. The ramshackle man’s breathing was quick and shallow, his clothing scorched. His rheumy eyes were wide and alive with the crackling flames bathing the woods.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Alejandro, steadying the uneasily swaying man.

  “It comes at night,” whispered the frightened peasant, his cheekbones pressing unhealthily against skin blanched white by fear. “Always at night. Always a different place.” His features cracking with panic, the peasant pulled loose from Alejandro and stumbled back, casting his gaze high at the endless abyss of the night sky. “The devil is in these woods, señor!”

  With an unexpected burst, the peasant raced from the clearing, leaving Alejandro standing alone in the blazing ring of fire. In the name of all that’s holy—what could have caused this?

  Billowing clouds of smoke parted over a ridge of trees, revealing the festively lit reaches of Armand’s hacienda. His face darkening with suspicion, Alejandro thought of the count, the man who had won Elena’s heart—and might one day look upon Joaquin as his own.

  Armand, if you have anything to do with this, it will not go well for you.

  This I vow.

  Chapter 7

  The afternoon sun glared in Elena’s eyes as the carriage she shared with Armand swept through the city. Shielding her eyes, she looked away from its fiery golden rays toward her handsome companion. Refracted shards of light glinted off a ring gracing Armand’s left hand, the sparkling illumination tracing the unsettling image of an engraved serpent coiled tightly around the globe.

  “What an unusual ring,” observed Elena curiously, “I hadn’t noticed it before…”

  Armand shrugged evasively. “My family’s coat of arms.”

  He ventured no further observations or confidences about the ring as their carriage shuddered to a rolling stop, yet his tone—and the faraway look now residing in his dark eyes—told her she had hit a nerve. How odd. He couldn’t be upset because she had noticed the ring. Why wear it if not to invite comment? Perhaps family had once again become a touchy subject for him. When they were friends together at finishing school, he often told her of battles that had flared between him and his father. Though the issues that had sparked conflict often seemed inconsequential to her—such as his insistence on wearing a popular hairstyle his father thought was unbecoming to a gentleman—they left Armand vexed for weeks at a time.

  Once the carriage had come to a full halt Armand sprang out with a gleeful grin, and held open the door as the noisy bustling marketplace beckoned beyond him. Elena graciously accepted his warm hand, smiling as she purred, “Thank you, darling. What a perfect day for a walk.”

  In the marketplace, vendors hawked their wares in a good-natured plea to separate all comers from their hard-earned pesetas, the universal language of haggling raising a chorus that nearly drowned out the lovely sounds of street musicians. Of course, money was not an issue for her or her companion. Elena often purchased items she didn’t need simply to help struggling merchants; charities received those wares as donations afterwards. These were proud people, and she knew that many would not accept help unless extended through gentle subterfuge.

  The tang of garlic soup pleasantly assailed her nose, while the calls of competing chefs—each with their own particular recipes for paella, a saffron-flavored rice dish—rung in her ears. Food was everywhere. Elena’s eyes crinkled mirthfully as Armand fought back the urge to wrinkle his nose at the aroma of strong spices clashing with the scent of overwhelming sweets. One moment they were easing past the sweet almond dough of mantecados and caramel custards called flans; the next, they were sweeping past flaming jalapenos crackling over sausage and onions. Ducks quacked and pigeons cooed, the fluttering of wings often seen rising over the smoke of fish frying in olive oil. Wooden heels clacked on the cobble walkways as a merchant expertly manipulated a pair of puppets, one a bandit, the other a silly version of El Zorro himself. Children flocked around to see if their hero would catch the bad man.

  Elena studied her companion’s face and sighed, convinced that something was troubling him. She shot Armand a single raised eyebrow to signal that there would be no true peace between them unless he relented.

  And so he did. “Elena, forgive me, but I must ask—your ex-husband seems a decent man. Why did you leave him?”

  Elena drew a sharp breath. What could she say? “Sometimes we see the ones we love as we wish them to be…but not always as they are.”

  Nodding, Armand walked with her, considering her words. They came to a homeless peasant sitting under an archway, her empty sombrero perched beside her. She was a beggar. Her white hair was matted and straggly, her wool blanket worm-eaten. Black pustules dotted her jowly face. Her gaze fixed on a far wall, seemed a gateway to a place of utter loneliness, desolation and despair.

  Armand fished a coin from his pocket and tossed it into her hat.

  The woman tensed at the sound of the coin landing. She looked up in surprise, her eyes suddenly moist with joy. “God bless you, señor,”

  “That was kind of you,” said Elena as they walked on.

  He laughed softly. “I was trying to impress you.”

  Her face flushed and she smiled invitingly. “If you really want to impress me, have me over for dinner tonight. Cook me something…sinful.”

  Armand swallowed. “Why not dine at your hacienda? I’d really like to meet your son.”

  Elena looked away and hugged
herself. “Please try and understand, darling. He’s not ready for another man in his life just yet.”

  Without warning, a man sprang up from behind a cart to Elena’s right. His head bounded into her view, his blazing eyes locked in an angry squint.

  Alejandro.

  Despite herself, Elena gasped in surprise.

  “What is it?” asked Armand. He whirled in the direction Elena had been looking—but Alejandro had already ducked behind the cart so as not to be seen.

  Elena’s frantic gaze raked over the wares at the closest stand. Her hand whipped out, seizing a flowery silken eyesore. “Uh—this hat,” said Elena, forcing a smile as she attempted to explain away her outburst. “Is breathtaking.”

  Armand was intrigued. “Shall I purchase it for you?”

  Elena flung the hat back to its seller. “On second thought, who needs another hat? But I could use…”

  Desperately scanning the area, she fixed on a tobacconist’s cart. A burly man leaned beside it, lighting a foul-smelling pipe.

  “A pipe,” she said brightly.

  Armand loosed a raspy chuckle. “A pipe?”

  Elena nodded sharply. “A pipe! Yes, like my father used to smoke.” She shrugged. “Tell me I haven’t repulsed you with my un-ladylike habit.”

  “On the contrary, you fascinate me.”

  Pointing, Elena said, “Look, there’s a vendor.”

  Armand nodded gentlemanly. “Wait here, won’t you?”

  Kissing her hand, Armand sauntered to the tobacconist’s cart as Alejandro burst from cover and bolted to Elena’s side.

  “What are you doing here?” snapped Elena.

  Alejandro growled, “Since when did you start smoking a pipe?”

  “I don’t smoke a pipe!” Elena cried. How could Alejandro be so thickheaded? “I said that to get rid of him so I can get rid of you!”

  “I have to talk to you about last night—” Alejandro began.

  Elena raised a hand to cut him off. “I forgive you. Goodbye.”

  Alejandro winced. “Not that, after. I saw something, in the forest…”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Elena.

  “Yes, what are you talking about?” asked a familiar voice.

  They wheeled about in surprise. Armand stood before them, the package containing Elena’s gift tucked under his arm, a droll look of bemusement caressing his near perfect features.

  “An explosion,” Alejandro admitted sourly. “Close to your chateau, in fact. Like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

  An explosion near the chateau? Elena wanted to know more, but she could say nothing. Instead, she turned to Armand just in time to see his jaw tighten, the muscles in his face twitch—and his features soften in a blink. The reaction came and went so quickly that she might have thought she imagined seeing it at all, but her instincts told her it was possible he knew something about this.

  It was equally possible, she reflected, that he believed Alejandro was making this nasty business up in a bid to keep her away from Armand’s home.

  “I simply wanted to make sure you were both safe,” explained Alejandro.

  Armand regarded Alejandro with a long appraising look. “As much as you had to drink last night, I’m sure your vision was impaired.”

  Alejandro’s spine stiffened. “Yet somehow it’s all becoming clear.”

  “A word of advice, de la Vega,” parried Armand, his lips growing wide in a savage grin, “if you have any respect for the relationship you shared with Elena, let it die with dignity.”

  Raising a single eyebrow, Alejandro ventured, “I’d have to know I’m losing to a better man.”

  Armand stared at Alejandro as if he were a cockroach to be crushed underfoot. “Oh, I can assure you of that.”

  Elena rolled her eyes. “Alright, that’s enough. Alejandro, time to go.”

  Caressing the edge of Elena’s face, Armand whispered reassuringly, “Elena, please, Alejandro’s come here for peace of mind. I’m obliged to give it to him.” There was an ugly note in Armand’s voice as he turned to Alejandro and said, “Perhaps we can settle this like gentlemen. You do know how to play polo, I take it?”

  Alejandro drew a sharp breath. He had clearly been taken off guard and knew nothing of the game. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  Slyly, Armand added, “I suggest we play as they do in Slovenia.”

  “A fine city,” Alejandro agreed.

  “Country,” corrected Armand, his voice choked with disdain.

  Alejandro delivered a slight mocking bow. “Naturally.”

  Elena willed herself to be a statue. Unmoved, above it all, uncaring about the childish displays of machismo driven forth from both men. She didn’t want to feel a thrill over the idea of these men fighting over her.

  Yet she smiled in a way that no statue ever could.

  Sunlight sparked against the tall wooden goalposts which stood like sentinels at either side of the emerald grassy clearing, while thickly leafed oak trees formed a copse behind the field, protecting what transpired there from prying eyes. Only six people were present for the impromptu polo match set against the rich blue of the afternoon sky: Armand and Alejandro, who faced each other on opposite sides of the field; the faithful Ferroq who stood tensely to one side as he gripped the reins of his master’s mount; an umpire wearing a black-and-white-striped topshirt who paced worried; Elena, the lone spectator in the otherwise empty rows of chairs; and the young man serving as her attendant. It had rained earlier, but now a cool refreshing breeze wafted over the field as the “game of kings” commenced.

  Elena breathlessly whipped her binoculars up before her eyes as the umpire whistled then bowled a ball onto the polo field. All right, my champions. Since you are both so determined, why don’t you show me exactly what you’re made of?

  Heavy rhythmic thunder rose through the soles of Elena’s feet, striking up from the quaking earth as the riders charged across the field like medieval knights jousting to win their lady’s favor. Or so it first appeared. Elena studied Alejandro’s face, his features twisted in blind rage, then Armand’s, set in undisguised loathing. As they each raised their mallets and prepared to get to the ball first, understanding seized Elena.

  Knights? They are hardly that. More like angry bulls using my affection as an excuse to do to each other whatever harm they can—and still consider themselves civilized.

  “May I bring you something to drink, miss?” asked the young attendant, his upper lip twitching as he tried to draw attention to what he imagined was a manly moustache but was in fact only a bit of light fuzz. “A mint tea, perhaps?”

  Elena’s face was hard as marble. “Double vodka, straight up.”

  On the field, Alejandro spurred Tornado on and howled triumphantly as he seized control of the ball from Armand. Galloping astride the sleekly muscled stallion, the rushing wind bracing his grinning face like a refreshing kiss, Alejandro decided that this game wasn’t so difficult after all. Whack the little ball between the sticks while riding your best “horsey.”

  Child’s play.

  Armand’s horse closed on him in an angry blur, the count’s mallet swinging far too high to reach the ball. Alejandro’s forehead knotted in confusion. What was the count playing at? He—

  A giant fist drove itself into Alejandro’s exposed stomach, sending him flying back from the saddle in a startled heap. A surge of agony tore through him, mixing with his shock as he fell hard on his tailbone and tumbled end over end, his momentum ensuring as undignified a landing as possible. The world spun as he heard a sharp crack at the other side of the field. Rolling onto his side, his ribs aching, Alejandro watched helplessly as Armand sent the ball between the goalposts. The umpire whistled, handing a point to the count.

  Alejandro rose to a trembling crouch, sensing that the greatest injury had been to his pride. He tried to make sense of what had happened. The count had struck him in the gut with his mallet. Surely it had been an accident. Still…

  He
glanced at Elena, who was on her feet, staring at him with concern—or was it scorn?

  Tornado returned, blocking Alejandro’s view of the beauty to whom he’d given his heart. The confused stallion greeted him with a sharp shake of his head. Grabbing the horse’s reins, Alejandro hauled himself to his feet. Yes, my friend, I would like to know what is going on as well…

  The sound of hooves pounding the grass reverberated at his back and he turned to face the approaching count. Trotting over to Alejandro, Armand peered down at him haughtily. “Perhaps a game of croquet would be less hazardous to your health?”

  With a knowing wink, Armand chuckled and thundered off, his mount kicking up small tufts of dirt that smacked against Alejandro’s boots.

  Alejandro’s eyes smoldered as he climbed back on Tornado.

  At the edge of the field, Elena slugged back her vodka. The drink set her insides on fire, but her nerves remained frayed. Armand must have struck Alejandro by accident.

  She thought of her days at school with Armand. He always had a temper, that was true, but he’d never harmed anyone—so far as she knew. Though there had been the incident with Clancy Dubois, a rumor springing up that Armand had surprised and beaten him, despite Clancy’s fevered claims otherwise…

  A sudden low rumble of hooves snapped her out of her reverie. Elena set down her empty glass as the horsemen heaved toward each other across the field. She gasped as Armand tilted his mallet; he meant to repeat his earlier performance, whether that attempt to injure Alejandro had been an accident or not.

  Alejandro was ready for him. Angling back at the last moment, he evaded the count’s powerful strike and launched his own mallet into Armand’s belly. With a startled exhalation of breath, Armand skidded back off his saddle, landing legs splayed in a splashing puddle of mud. Alejandro rode hard, drove the ball to his own goal and scored easily, then trotted back around to regard the filth-stained count with a nasty smile.